Charlotte came one afternoon and was relieved and pleased to see her friend laughing, though it was rather outraged amusement.
‘Oh, Lottie, I wish you could have been here a minute ago! I managed to get hold of a bit of polony and I thought, I’ll share it with the old lady next door, poor soul, she doesn’t get out much, so I went in and gave it to her and she said, “Oh thanks, love, I’ll just put it away,” and she throws open this cupboard that’s crammed full of tins of ham and salmon, biscuits, cake, oh, everything you could imagine! Then she puts my little bit of polony alongside it and closes the door – without offering me so much as a crumb! I suppose that teaches me!’ Convulsed with laughter, she fell into a fit of coughing.
Charlotte was laughing heartily too until the barking grew so severe that Grace was almost sick into her handkerchief. Rushing to her friend she pulled the handkerchief away from Grace’s mouth to examine it, seeing blood.
‘Right, that’s it!’ Charlotte directed her big square face at the door. ‘I’m fetching the doctor and you’re going into hospital.’
‘No, don’t. I’ll be all right in a minute!’ Grace called after her friend, but her plea was ignored.
Returning with the doctor, Charlotte watched in consternation whilst he examined Grace, agreeing with all that he said. ‘Mrs Kilmaster is ready to go into hospital – don’t argue!’ She pointed at Grace, tears of anger springing to her small emerald eyes. ‘I won’t stand by and watch my friend die through self-neglect!’
Grace knew when she was beaten. She would have sighed had it not made her cough. ‘All right, but I’m not having the children come home from school and find me gone. I want to see them first.’
‘I can go and collect them and explain,’ pleaded Charlotte, afraid that, granted time, Grace would change her mind about going into hospital.
‘No.’
Charlotte looked set to fly off the handle. ‘I could strangle you!’ Turning to the doctor, she asked him if he would arrange for the ambulance to come later that afternoon when the patient had seen her children.
Once he had gone, she sat beside Grace and took hold of her delicate hand, stroking it. ‘I should nip down to Probe’s office and let him know.’
Grace agreed that it was a good idea.
Giving her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze, Charlotte put on her hat and coat and went out into the November afternoon.
Though grateful that someone had managed to persuade his wife to go into hospital, Probyn knew the situation must be chronic for Grace to give in like this, and abandoning his work he raced home to be at her side.
However, he found that she required him to be of service elsewhere.
‘Can you go and meet the children, Probe?’ Her wan little face begged him. ‘Break the news gently to them before they get home so it’s not too much of a shock?’
With Probyn reluctant to leave his wife Charlotte said, ‘I’ve told Grace, I’ll go.’
‘No, dear, if you don’t mind, it’s best their father goes.’ Grace patted the sofa where she reclined. ‘You sit here and keep me company.’
On her way to collect Mims from Baby Class, Beata was pleasantly surprised to find her father waiting there too and ran the last few steps to curl her arm around one of his sturdy thighs.
Successfully hiding his concern, Probyn smiled down at her, withholding the bad news for now. ‘They very kindly gave me the afternoon off work so I’ve just been out for a stroll and thought I’d come by and walk home with my children.’ He patted her. ‘You run in and get Mims, I’ll wait here for the others.’
When the two little girls came out of school their brothers and sister were gathered around Father, who had crossed the road and was talking to a man who stood at his door waiting for his own children. Beata vaguely knew the man’s daughter, who was there with him. Mary Melody collected her sister from Baby Class at the same time as she collected Mims, but she had no other contact with the Melodys, who were in her opinion too clannish.
Noticing her and Mims, Probyn summoned them across the road, then went back to his conversation with Mick Melody. He was still trying to get over the shock of seeing his old friend. Though the widow’s peak was still there, the crop of curls was much thinner and there was a lot of grey in it. Mick was no longer the youthful, animated soul he had been. But then, everyone who had served at the front had been robbed of their youth. When Beata and Mims arrived the men were talking about the German Empire and who would get what after the war, which was all but over, but now that all his children were here, Probyn finished the conversation, having more important things to discuss with them. ‘Well, it’s grand to see you, Mick! Sorry, I can’t stop – we must get together one evening, though.’
Mick agreed, both men knowing they never would. They said it each time but it never amounted to anything. ‘Great to see you too, Pa! God bless.’ So saying, Mick ushered his children indoors.
Glad to have their father’s company, the children vied for his attention on the way home, Joe trying to engage him man to man by resurrecting the previous topic about the German Empire. ‘It isn’t as big as ours, is it, Father?’
Wondering how to tell them about their mother, Probyn replied thoughtfully, ‘Oh no, but the difference is much greater than size alone. The German Empire is based on oppression. We didn’t have to force any of our Dominions to come and fight. They gave their blood freely for the Empire that’s as much theirs as it is ours.’
‘I built sandcastles.’ Mims’ bright little face looked up at him.
‘Did you, deary? What a clever girl.’
The children still chattering beside him, Probyn led them along greasy pavements through town. With naphtha flares illegal the market folk were packing up early on this dingy afternoon, some carts already rumbling their way out of the city. Near to the office where he worked was a bench on which sat a pair of old soldiers whom he saw every day and he greeted them in passing. Old soldiers? They were in their twenties but looked ancient. The ground between their boots was flecked with blood and mucus, a result of the gassing they had suffered. Over the months he had seen their number whittled down from five. He wondered how much longer these poor decrepit chaps would last.
Steeling himself, Probyn finally managed to voice the reason why he had come for his children. ‘By the way, erm, your mother’s been taken ill… very ill. She’s got to go into hospital.’ Detesting the sight of their anxious faces he hurried on, ‘She doesn’t want to leave you! I had to force her to go and if she sees any tears she’ll turn her hog out and stay at home, but she needs hospital treatment so I want you all to be very brave and not cry when you wave her off. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, Father,’ came the united murmur; though there was little conviction in its tone.
With everyone else fallen silent, and made suspicious by his mother’s cough, Duke enquired, ‘Has she got the white scourge?’
But his father didn’t answer.
* * *
That evening, fighting the urge to cry, the children watched the ambulance come and take their mother away. Too young to remember her father’s request, Mims allowed her tears to flow freely. It was all Probyn could do to stop Grace climbing off the stretcher.
‘I’ll get Lizzie to bring them to visit you,’ he told her, holding her down gently as she was lifted into the ambulance. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’
True to his word, Grace’s husband did arrange for visits to be made, her sisters taking it in turns to fetch her children to the hospital. But it was all too little, both to the mother and those who missed her.
Today was Beata’s turn and she was looking forward to it eagerly, not merely to seeing Mother but to delivering her news, and came running down the ward to Grace’s bed.
‘The war’s over, Mother!’
Grace pretended that this was the first she had heard, though the sounds of celebration from outside had told her hours ago. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ She exte
nded a thin arm to her daughter.
‘We went to church to give thanks on our way.’ Beata stood at her mother’s bedside, holding Grace’s hand and examining the ward, which rang to a medley of coughing. It was not like any hospital she had been in before, the ward a type of pavilion hut that had stable doors, the top one being open and emitting a cold blast, though her mother was well protected with a woollen bonnet and shawl in addition to thick blankets.
Having made every effort to eat and drink all the rich dairy food that had been put before her, Grace certainly looked a lot better.
‘By, you look fitter than me, doesn’t she, Beat?’ remarked Lizzie.
‘I don’t suppose she needs this now. I might just sup it myself.’ She tugged a bottle of stout from her bag.
Grace gave an expression of pleasure, then said, ‘Keep it hidden a minute longer,’ and she summoned a passing nurse to ask if she might have a glass of milk.
When it came, she pretended to drink it but once the nurse had gone she gave it to Beata with a smile. ‘There, get that down you and I’ll have my stout.’
‘Eh, you could have ordered a cup of tea for me!’ teased Lizzie, but poured the stout into a glass for her sister.
Smacking her lips, Grace asked how everyone was at home.
‘Oh, they’re all very well.’ Lizzie nodded.
‘Some men came in and squirted stuff all over,’ provided Beata between sips. ‘It really ponged.’
Quickly brushing over the fumigation, Lizzie said, ‘Best to be safe.’
Beata withdrew her face from the glass, upper lip white with milk. ‘Duke keeps running off.’
Quick to calm the mother’s concern, Lizzie gave a light laugh, saying that he didn’t run far. But Grace was not convinced, Lizzie could tell, and when later they departed she warned Beata not to say such things again. ‘We don’t want your mam running home before she’s better, do we?’
Grace cried after Beata had gone, as she had done after all the previous visits from her children. Yet to see little Mims, she knew it would be an ordeal, and tried her best to stay cheerful when the youngest was finally brought. But, oh, it was hard not to cry, especially as the nurse had advised her against kissing, and when the time came for her baby to leave and Mims started protesting and screaming to be allowed to stay with her mother, Grace broke down and wept.
Bearing that such upset might jeopardize future visits, she soon dried her eyes and when the nurse came she was calm again, if deeply thoughtful.
The nurse stooped to pick an astrakhan bonnet from the floor. ‘Does this belong to your little girl?’
Eyes still damp from crying, Grace’s mouth formed an expression of woe. Taking the bonnet, she pressed it to her face, inhaling the scent of her youngest child’s hair, breathing it in for a long decisive moment, fresh tears burning her eyes. It was no good. She couldn’t desert them any longer; she must go home.
* * *
Probyn was annoyed that his wife had discharged herself after only a few weeks, but he had to concede that even this short spell of rest had done her good, and he was as glad as the children to have her home. With the wartime restrictions on food now being slackened they could at least maintain the diet she had enjoyed in hospital and hopefully get rid of that debilitating cough.
Horrified to learn that she was contemplating going back to running her shop, and knowing she would defy him if he did not provide some alternative, he said that Joe would be kept off school to do this. If she insisted on being at home she must sit still and rest.
Making her as comfortable as possible before going out to work on a morning, stoking up the fire as best he could with coal rationing still in force, wrapping her in warm clothes and blankets and propping her in a chair by the open window, he made her promise she would not move except to answer the call of nature. ‘Gussie’s got everything prepared for dinner. You don’t need to do a thing. Just sit there and watch the dicky birds in the yard.’
Overjoyed to be back amongst loved ones, Grace swore she would not overdo things, though within a few weeks of being home, once her husband’s back was turned she was up and dragging herself across town to meet the children from school and take them to see the magical Christmas grotto in Boyes’s shop window.
Though cautioned not to mention this to her father, Mims could not prevent herself from chattering about the event and so letting the cat out of the bag.
‘But it’s Christmas, Probe,’ Grace protested softly at his scolding. ‘And they’ve had such a hard time of it during the last five years, I was just giving them a treat.’
‘Grace, dearest,’ he looked exasperated, ‘you’re too ill to be doing this to yourself. You only had to say and I would have taken them to the grotto.’
‘But I want to be with them.’ She gripped his hand, looking him in the eye, trying to convey the depth of her feelings.
‘I know, lass,’ he said quietly, shutting his eyes and returning her grip. ‘I know.’
* * *
Keen frosty weather heralded 1919. Vast crowds moved through the city streets and congregated around the Minster to hear Big Peter announce midnight for the first time in years. A fanfare sounded and ten thousand voices united in a cheer, mingling with the sound of brass, the refrain of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ travelling upon the cold night air and through the Kilmasters’ open window, each listener wondering what the year held for them.
What it held for one member of the family was joy, for Kit’s son came home unscathed, physically at least.
But for most, victory in Europe was to signal the beginning of a war at home, the year being only days old when strikes and sedition began to erupt from all corners of the kingdom with troops being called out to keep order and tanks rolling into Dublin.
Kit did not mention the latter when she and Toby came to pay a New Year’s visit to her nephew, this diplomacy stemming from the trouble caused by Probyn’s marriage to an Irish Catholic. Over the years Kit had grown used to Grace, but it was always there niggling in the background and she had no wish to stir bad feeling by raising the Irish troubles. Instead her condemnation was for the industrial sector.
‘I’m in total sympathy with the soldiers who are kicking up a stink that they’re not being demobilized quickly enough,’ said Kit, seated close to her soldier son, her weight sorely testing the dining chair over which spilled reams of fat. ‘I wouldn’t begrudge those poor lads one gripe after what they’ve been through. But the rest of these strikers, the miners included, they want horse-whipping, demanding more pay. I know it’s a dangerous job but this is just sheer greed. There’re pits laying idle. If the miners don’t watch their backs the Americans will be sneaking in and outpricing them just like they’ve done in agriculture and everything else. I remember a time when the unions were just beginning – I was only a little girl, mind, but I can recall the time well – something needed to be done against masters who wanted their workers to sweat blood – but now it’s just gone too far the other way. Why, they’re holding the country to ransom! You can’t have people who don’t know what they’re doing running the country.’
Probyn quite agreed but, wanting to keep the atmosphere calm, said, ‘Still, we’ve got Toby home, that’s the most important thing.’ He shared a look with the young man, a look that only another soldier could interpret.
‘It certainly is!’ Kit beamed lovingly at her son, who was leaning over the table with the children, cutting up a Woodbine packet to make a jigsaw. ‘You should have seen my face when he walked through that door!’ Her eyes filled with tears at the memory.
‘He’ll soon have the farm back to order for you,’ smiled Grace.
‘Eh, don’t be finding work for me, Aunt!’ scolded Toby with a laugh. ‘I’m looking forward to getting me feet up.’
‘Getting your feet up? They’ve never been off the mattress since you got home,’ Kit teased her son. ‘If you don’t want to help your poor mother there’s plenty will.’ Demobilization had hardly commenced an
d the figures for out-of-work benefits had soared. ‘I feel right sorry for those heroes with no work to come back to. I might take a couple on myself. It’s the least I can do.’ The brightness of Kit’s tone belied her sadness. She thought of dear Worthy striding over those fields. The flu that had killed him was still raging.
They heard the front door open. ‘There’s somebody in the shop, Joe,’ said Probyn.
‘Sit there with Toby,’ Grace bade her son. ‘I’ll go.’
‘No—’ began Probyn.
But his wife went off singing gaily. Probyn let her go, but only because it gave him the opportunity to discuss her health with Kit, the pair of them going into the scullery to whisper.
‘I never expected Grace to still be running the shop,’ said Kit.
‘She shouldn’t be, she isn’t normally if I’m here to watch her. The children have taken it in turns to help, but they’ll be back at school next week. I think I’m going to have to rip that counter out, you know.’
Kit looked sympathetic. Grace could sing and pretend all she liked but it failed to mask her sickness. ‘The stay in hospital doesn’t seem to have done her much good.’
‘She wasn’t there long enough. She couldn’t bear to be parted from the children.’ He shook his head in near desperation. ‘But she’s going the right way to putting herself back in there.’
* * *
His words prophetic, the following week Probyn and his children were once again to witness Grace being conveyed by ambulance to Yearsley Bridge Hospital.
Once more the aunts set up a relay system in order that their sister might get to see her brood, but it was all very trying for everyone.
A Different Kind of Love Page 28
